They slid into the booth beside yours. The vinyl seat creaked under their weight. Dean picked up a menu, but his attention was somewhere else—on the tiny, furious cry that cut through the diner noise like a knife.

Ivy's cries were getting louder, her little face scrunched red beneath the blanket. Across from you, Paul hadn't looked away from the television.

Dean's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He just watched—watched the way you shifted Ivy, the way your hands trembled slightly as you searched the diaper bag, the way Paul's jaw flexed with irritation.

The words came out low, but not low enough.

Ivy let out another sharp cry. A woman at the counter turned around. The waitress near the kitchen glanced over with open concern. And then Paul reached across the table and grabbed your wrist—not hard, but not gentle either.

The word landed like a stone dropping into still water. Paul's fingers didn't leave your wrist, but his eyes finally slid toward the booth beside him.